Exploring Writing

In my own way—and every writer is an individual—I learn to let go and spew upon the page. I’ve spent so much time over-analyzing the craft, that words have become meaningless and then reclaimed their meaning again in cyclical patterns. I’ve rebelled, repented, and wandered in cross-eyed revolt. Rhyme plum jammin word heads to hackin street beat. The hesitation is leaving—the second guessing fades…

“But what about me—me, me, me? Will it sound good? Will it be understood? Will you love me? Remember me? Wonder about me?”

Blah, ego be gone. I am free to be me. I strive for clarity.

I want to explore and travel in thought, through words, using words as a sacred path—stones to higher meaning—the combination of phrases greater than the sum of the sentence. A conclusion that inspires the entrance. The story with a voice louder than the chorus of its own paragraphs. I’m not worried anymore. Writing’s become an extension expression, the comprehension anti-depression formiculi operandi. I’m reaching to words in prayer from a stasis exuding a string that someone will get—even one person. The reader, oh please, the reader and me. Where do you wanna go? Grab my hand…


“What the?”

“I know, it’s cool, isn’t it. You like this place?”

“It’s freezing!”

A van, Mitsubishi, white, high-top, squeals past on our right. Rain’s splashing everywhere. Night. And definitely urban—downtown. There’s twenty reflections of asphalt down a three lane one-way.

“Let’s cross!”

We scramble between white lines, charging the rain to the pulse of an orange lamp. Two horns—a diesel shifts gears—and we dash.

“This is fun, you wait and see!” And the exuberance swims higher inside. The rush of almost being where we’re supposed to be. All has come to this, living as lights and confusion wrap around in bustle and froth of a city at night.

“We’re so lucky, that we both chose at the same time.”

“Together, at the same time,” you echo, so close we’re both laughing. Almost there.

Such an entrance: the pillars, the grand concourse, slate glass vees into dark void above, the tallest building in town. Ten steps up chiseled marble and we’re still dashing, into a golden foyer, swirling in people and yellow light. It’s regal, a wonder, and so foreign.

“I’m dizzy…” You shake the words, hiding a breath of fear.

“I know, I always am. Are you ready?”

“I think so.”

The music is straining to become louder. We can see them humming, mouthing the words. In the song of all the participants, the melody runs and builds. Colors, fabrics and metals, mirrors and reflections, blur in backdrop. Fading shades run from the foreground to memory. Always leaving…

There is no more building, just rain and night, and the hum quells beneath a crackling fire. Low voices mumble and whisper. They speak of us—our journey—and our return.

“You passed out.”

“No I didn’t.”

I envy your defiance. That naivety will get you far. People will believe you. “Sure, you were passed out.”

“I was listening the whole time.”

Your easy lie is not unnoticed. “No you weren’t! If you were awake, then what did we change into?”

“What do you mean?”

A round of chuckles answers back. Two clinks and a flash. Someone opens a beer. Old eyes catch spark and watch behind ember light.

“Where did you go?”

“I dunno, I guess I was at a party or something—I was dizzy.”

“That’s good. A happy dream.”

Another leans into firelight. Two knees click then weave backwards with a two-step, balancing, “Yeah, a good dream is better.”

We all ponder this idea. There’s no stars visible tonight, but that’s better. Cloud cover keeps the path in shadow, easy for the assembled, distinguished ruses.

“Look through the hidden door,” Old Eyes says.

“Everything’s a blank,” you speak with calm finality.

“Then your world is windows.”

Another clink and flash. A few more chuckles. I love these wise-asses before a sweat.

Sometimes we write to focus the reader on our writing style, sometimes we write to convey the story. A fun challenge is to coax the reader, and hopefully help them forget they are reading—the words are so effortless that suggested imagery paints a mental movie. Alas, this is my struggle: What plays in the head, does not necessarily transcribe to the page. I am a babe and the story is very old.

Must… write… many… more… pages… the plodding… and purely on instinct. Fie! Let your imagination run, and let the keyboard be a violin. Each note becomes part of a natural melody.

And so this dialectic shall to pass. Remember, my writer friend, you are an artiste! We be the painter, the sculptor, the poet, the dramatist—all so easy and at our fingertips—with curious hair, funny shoes, an odd glint in the eye. When people ask, declare with tenacity,

“I’m a writer! You would expect anything less? Incredulous—may I use you as a character? Let us walk, and talk, I’m shopping scenery.”

Another unexpected exploration by gaboo for now.readthisplease.com.


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